North
by cybersyd42
Summary: After an unexpected crashlanding on an alien planet, Sheppard and McKay are forced to rely on each other to survive. COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Notes: This is a response to a challenge posted on the Yahoo! SGAHC Group: to begin a fic with the phrase 'My father never...' It is also inspired by the Due South episode called 'North,' written by Jeff King, and as such the plot and an occasional line may feel familliar. _

_No spoilers, no ships, no warnings. Reviews welcomed and adored. Beta'd by the lovely Nebbyjen. Thank you kindly!_

**North **

Chapter One

"My father never took me camping."

I pause, breathless, placing one hand against the cool surface of a rock to steady myself. "Is this really the time, McKay?"

"I lied. He didn't do…"

"The outdoors?" I suggest.

"Children. Brunette PAs," he adds, his voice shifting a tone, "those he did in wild abundance. But not kids. He was never, ah - he never took to parenting."

A stunner bolt hits the rock a few inches from my hand and sends tingles through my fingers. Ducking, I return my hand to McKay's back and follow the man down a small slope toward the sounds of the river. "Really, McKay - is this going to take long?"

"Everything else was true," he pants. "I borrowed my mother's sheets, I packed up a crate of food, and then I waited out in the yard for him to come home." He suddenly turns and grabs me by the arms, pulling me down to my knees. "Duck."

Another blast erupts overhead, and what feel like leaves shower from overhead.

McKay takes my arm by the wrist and tugs me sharply upward, continuing our descent down the slope. "All I wanted was to spend some time with him, to talk to him, to get to know him." I slip on something wet beneath my feet but he jerks me upright and pulls me onwards. "He promised he would be there but he never turned up."

"Did he…" I pause, wincing as my right hip clips something hard and unresisting, with enough strength to bruise. "Did he apologize?"

He snorts. "Hah! No. He came home in the early hours in the morning and the next time I saw him it was two days later. He didn't say a thing about it, and I didn't bring it up. I'd unpacked everything and cleaned the sheets - what was the use?"

My feet skitter over rocks, and another explosion rattles in the space to my left.

"My point is," McKay pants, "I never went camping. I never did any of that father-son bonding stuff. I lied. I guess…" and then his hands are suddenly on my shoulders, pushing me down to a crouch, "I didn't want you thinking that before we die."

"We're not going to die," I retort, feeling mud soak through my pants to my knees.

"Tell that to Dave."

Another bolt hits somewhere overhead, and McKay instantly drags me back up onto my feet, pulling me down the slope. I slip and fall the last few feet, skidding to the bottom to be greeted by shingle. Rodney grabs my shoulders and half-drags, half-pushes me several meters, then presses a hand to my chest.

"Stay here," he urges, and then I hear the scuffle of shingle as he moves away.

Oh crap. He's going to be a hero. "McKay!"

---------------------------------------------

I don't believe in God. Never have done, never will do. Somehow the idea of an omniscient, omnipotent being looking out for the welfare of mankind so offends my sense of reason that I've never found any faith to be particularly appealing.

I lack spirituality of any kind. I don't believe in the soul or the afterlife. We are only what science dictates us to be – flesh and blood and electrical impulses advanced thanks to a nice dollop of evolution.

Had I been pressed into ascribing any type of sentiency to the universe, however, it would be a malevolent one. How else to explain how Major Sheppard and myself ended up crashing into an alien planet, unable to contact Atlantis, with one hungry and pissed off Wraith on our trail?

Yes, the universe hates me. Which might not be so bad if someone could explain quite what I'd done to deserve it? I'm a good guy, right?

Most of the time, anyway.

It was a simple driving lesson. After our encounter with the super Wraith the ability to drive a jumper had somehow lost its appeal, but Sheppard had insisted I continue learning. He threw a variety of hideous circumstances at me which all culminated in him being either dead or unconscious and myself as the only person gifted with the gene who could lead the rescue.

He can be amazingly cheerful at times.

Despite his unwarranted abuse at my sense of direction – there is no up in space, no matter what Sheppard believes to the contrary – I was getting the hang of the flying part. Not that I was going to admit it, but the jumper's computer handles most of the direction, and all the driver has to do is give it the occasional mental nudge now and again.

Getting the jumper out of the bay – that proved more difficult. After bumping the ceiling for the fifth time and leaving a welt across the wall Sheppard wrested control off me for fear of hurting his baby beyond even Zelenka's repair.

I swear, the man is possessive to the point of psychosis at times.

He decided to try something he promised was a little easier – namely, threading the jumper through an orbiting Stargate. Trying to forget a variety of colourful flashbacks involving our last experience with puddle jumping, I managed the task on my first try – and I might have celebrated, had we not arrived into the path of a scouting Wraith dart.

Earlier he pushed me from the controls, muttering about paint jobs and leaving toddlers car keys. This time there was violence, Sheppard mentally ripping my mind away from the driving seat.

We were still too slow. I'm not an expert on the topic, and I will never admit it to him – but John is an excellent pilot. Still, even he couldn't outrun a dart, not with the element of surprise lost.

It was only a glancing blow, but the first shot took out our ability to cloak. With the jumper unprotected and vulnerable, Sheppard decided to do the only thing we could – run.

The atmosphere of the planet was enough to lose the dart for a while, but by that point the jumper was too badly damaged, and despite his cursing I could not pull off the miracle Sheppard demanded of me.

I'm a genius, not god.

So… we crashed.

---------------------------------------------

"Major?"

Oh god. Ow. Christ. Ow. I've had hangovers before but this feels like somebody crushed my head in a car compactor.

"Major? John? Oh god, please be okay. I'm not good with people dying on me, alright? It's… it's not a fun thing for me."

Ow. Holy crap. There's a jackhammer somewhere in my skull, and if someone told me my brain was bleeding out of my ears, I wouldn't be surprised. When I first came round after having the Wraith tick removed from my neck – that was bad, that was a migraine of planet-like proportions. But that's a day in the park compared to this.

"John, please – wake up. I don't – I'm not doing this on my own."

Somebody suddenly grips my chin, fingers scrabbling at my neck. Sluggishly I manage to lift my hand in protest, though I feel strangely detached from the action, as though I'm operating my body from remote. "Grr-off."

Okay. Speech not entirely lucid.

"Oh, thank god." The voice I recognise as McKay releases a loud sigh. "Ah, Major, we have to get out of here, okay? Can you get up?"

Get up? He's kidding, right? I can barely think straight.

"Major." A hand taps my cheek insistently, and pain bursts across my temple. "Listen to me. As much as I'd like to sit here while you have a nice, long, leisurely get up, hit the snooze button, make some coffee, the usual - we have to get out of here. _Now_."

Some of the urgency in McKay's voice manages to penetrate the haze. "Alright," I mutter. "Help me up."

McKay slips an arm around my waist and I lean into his support, managing to pull my legs under me. The ground beneath my feet lists suddenly and I stumble, falling heavily against him.

That's not right. That's not – that's not right. Dammit, I can't think straight. Don't remember – oh, wait. There was a Wraith ship and…

"We crashed?"

"Yes, Major, we did. The jumper crashed, you hit your head and now, ah, now we _really_ have to get out here." McKay jostles me forward, forcing me to take several shambling steps.

The floor seems at odds with my feet. I reach out with my free arm and touch the side of the jumper for support. "We crashed," I repeat.

"Oh, you hit your head _really_ hard." He pulls me forward another couple of steps. I'm suddenly aware of a cold breeze on my face, and the distant sound of branches creaking. "That's it, Major. Another couple of steps. Wait…" His voice raises sharply in alarm, and he tugs hard on my arm. "Not there. To your left. There. Okay."

He wraps his hand around mine and pulls it forward, his skin clammy with sweat. Slowly I lean forward, and my hand touches something rough and uneven, dusty beneath my fingertips.

McKay leans forward so his weight is against my back, pressing me up against the uneven surface. I can feel his chest moving in sharp stutters, his breath hot against my cheek.

"McKay," I drawl, "people will talk."

"Shut up," he hisses. "Just stay still, hold on and don't…"

Whatever he was about to say is suddenly lost in an avalanche of noise. I can hear what sound like branches creaking then tearing, snapping, the rustle of leaves and a great groan of something large and heavy sliding against the rebellious ground. The thing we lean against starts to vibrate, and McKay presses himself even closer against me as the groan turns into a shriek, and there is the sound of earth moving against earth and…

And a strange pause, as though the world is holding its breath…

Then the air against my cheek suddenly shifts, the thing stops vibrating, and there is the sound of something falling through the air. Branches continue to break and I can hear the alarmed cries of birds growing dimmer, getting further away. For a second there is nothing but the sound of McKay panting into my ear, and then a distant, hideous, crashing.

"What was that?" I ask, not daring to raise my voice above a whisper.

"The jumper," he breathes back, slowly levering himself off me. "Falling into that deep… deep… ah…" His words dry up.

"McKay?"

"You – ah – you did _see_ that, didn't you Major?"

"Well," I allow a trace of exasperation to enter my voice, to cover the fear, "that would be a little hard, wouldn't it? Given that I seem to be blind."

---------------------------------------------

"Stop it."

I wave my fingers in front of Sheppard's face one more time, but his eyes don't even flicker.

"Stop it," he growls again. "One more time, I swear, and I will bite your fingers off."

I jerk my hand back quickly. "Right. Sorry, just checking."

"Checking what? That I'm suddenly less blind than I was five minutes ago?"

"Well, it could be temporary," I offer.

"It _is_ temporary, Rodney," he says fiercely. "It's a side-effect of the head wound, that's all."

"Oh. Right. Swelling of the temporal lobe, or, ah –"

"Or something like that, yes." He lifts his fingers up to probe gently at the gash in his hairline, and winces.

John looks – hell, he looks as bad as he did in the jumper, and back then I would have sworn, for a second anyway, that he was dead. Far too pale than any healthy person should be, blood streaked down his face, his breathing shallow and strange. That, thankfully, seems to have sorted itself out now that he's conscious, but there's still the head wound and the paleness – and oh, let's not forget the fact that he still can't see anything, shall we?

Like I said, the universe hates me.

He's still fingering the wound. I knock his hand away more roughly than I intend to, pressing the wadded cloth against his head, causing him to hiss sharply in pain.

"Great bedside manner, McKay."

"Sorry, sorry." It's not bleeding as much as it was, but the area around the gash is swollen and pink. With my free hand I take his, and lift it up to press his fingers against the cloth. "Hold that there," I instruct him, before turning away to the pack.

I didn't entirely panic during our last minute rush from the jumper before it careened into the bottom of a crevasse. As well as manhandling the groggy Major I did manage to pull one pack out with us. One pack, containing one first aid kit, four MREs, six powerbars – it was _my_ pack – a torch, and not enough water. Not much, but adequate supplies for a driving lesson, a quick 'trip around the block,' as Ford had casually dubbed it.

I should have known then the journey was jinxed.

I pull a roll of bandages from the kit and start to wrap the material around the Major's head, holding the wadding in place.

"You're messing up the 'do, McKay," he jokes, but I can see fine lines of pain around his eyes, and a vein throbbing in his neck.

"Carson may have to shave it," I threaten him, tying off the knot clumsily.

"He wouldn't dare."

"Mm, maybe not. You might be lucky. We wouldn't want to spoil that pretty boy image."

He pokes a finger towards me. "Jealous?"

"Hardly."

"Denial. So what's the plan?"

I sit back and stretch out my right leg, grimacing at the pain. The cloth around my thigh is wet with blood, but for the moment it seems to have stopped spreading. "Ah."

"What?" He struggles to sit up straighter. "That's a bad sound, McKay."

"Yes, well…" I stop, biting my lip as I peel back the torn cloth of my trouser leg. "The dual suns of this system combined with the unusual make-up of the atmosphere meant the dart couldn't track the jumper's movements. Unfortunately, it also means that when Atlantis send a rescue party they won't be able to scan the surface for life-signs without having to adjust the system to compensate and…"

"Sum it up, Rodney," he says, sounding tired.

"Right. Sorry, I tend to panic after near death experiences." I take a deep breath, tightening the bandage around my thigh. Sharp pain runs up my leg, past my hip and presses into my chest.

"McKay?"

"It…" I take a short, uneven breath, then start again, forcing my voice to remain level. "It means it's going to take a little longer for Atlantis to get to us than it would normally, that's all."

"Right. No panicking."

"No, no." I lean forward a little to tie off the bandage.

"What else?"

"Hmm?"

"What else, McKay?"

"Oh." Carefully I get to my feet, ignoring the protest from my thigh. "Well, ah, there's the Wraith."

He instantly stiffens, his eyes darting about the forest. As though it makes a difference. "I thought we lost it."

"Yes, well, apparently not."

"I think…" he pauses, "we hit it."

"Yes. And it went down. But, I…" Pausing, I recall the curl of smoke rising from a distant mountain. "I'm not sure it was entirely destroyed."

"So," and he takes a breath, "If we're lucky, it survived the crash and is now hunting down the nearest food source – us - and if we're unlucky, it sent a distress signal out to the nearest fleet for a pick-up."

"That about sums it up."

"Okay. Great." He shifts, reaching out blindly towards me. "Help me up."

"What? Why?"

"Rule number one of avoiding capture, McKay. Keep moving. Plus," and he licks his lips, "I don't hear any water around here, do you?"

"Ah." A horrible pit opens in my stomach. "Well, we have – we have enough." I glance at the two bottles and suddenly wish I'd been more careful when packing. Four MREs, six powerbars, and only two bottles of water? What the hell was I thinking! "It's fine. Atlantis will be here soon."

"Right," he agrees, and waves his arm at me. "Help me up. We should move to lower ground."

"Okay. You're the, ah, field guy." I take his hand and help him to his feet, ready to catch him if he should falter. After swaying briefly, his free hand shooting to touch the wound on his head, he straightens, and extricates himself from my hold.

"So how's best to do this?"

"I, um…" I hesitate, and consider the problem. "Put your hand on my back," I instruct. "Just follow me."

"Okay. Warn me if there are any branches or holes, okay? I don't want to fall on my face."

---------------------------------------------

There were painkillers in the first aid kit. Rodney gave me a couple after first pulling me from the jumper. They took the edge off, enough to allow me to think straight and to preserve my equilibrium. When we last stopped he offered me another two, but I turned him down. This is going to get worse before it gets better, and I'm not sure what words Carson would have to say on mixing a concussion with drugs.

McKay's not saying much, and it has me worried. As long as he's babbling, even in panic, he's okay. When he's silent – that's when he's terrified.

Not that I blame him. Trapped on a planet without water, a Wraith on our trail, and rescue a long way off…

And I'm trying really hard not to think about the fact that I'm…

Oh god. I'm a pilot. You don't get blind pilots. Not even with Ancient technology. I'm a pilot, and I'm a soldier, and if I can't see I'm no longer any of those things. I – I don't know what…

"Major, duck."

I dip my head obediently and feel a branch brush my hair. McKay's shoulder shifts beneath my touch. If he can feel my fingers pressing deep into his back, he hasn't said anything.

If this is permanent…

"I wonder what damage Kavanagh is doing in my absence?"

I tear my thoughts away from the nightmares lurking beneath the surface. "Afraid he's going to usurp you?" I ask, playing the game. I know I'm not the only one on the brink.

"Oh, Zelenka will keep him in check, and it's not as though he has many fans. But he insists on doing everything his own way – outdated and wrong – and undoes all the work of others before he starts to work." He sighs. "I'll come back to find he's re-filed all the reports under alphabetical order."

"Oh." I frown. "What's wrong about that?"

"He'll have done it backwards. Root."

I pick up my feet to avoid tripping.

"We should stop for a break," he says, conversationally.

"I'm fine," I insist. Okay, sure, I'm parched, my head feels three times its usual size, it's difficult to breathe, I can't stop from trembling and – oh yeah, I'm still blind – but I can keep putting one foot in front of another.

"Major…"

"Really, McKay. Besides, if we stop, I'm not so sure I'll be able to get up again." I follow the comment with a laugh, but it isn't returned. In the silence I lick my lips, and venture: "How long do you think it'll take for Zelenka to rig a Jumper's sensors?"

He pauses before answering. "Depends on the variance. Could be a couple of hours, could be, ah, longer. Of course, if Radek doesn't…" He cuts off suddenly and comes to an abrupt halt, so I almost knock into him.

"McKay!"

"Sorry."

There is cold air on my face, and hard rock beneath my feet. When I speak, my words echo distantly. "What is it?"

"Well, ah... there's no river bed." He takes a deep breath. "It's a ravine, Major."

"Oh. How…"

"Grand Canyon sized."

"So we won't be abseiling anytime soon," I joke.

Another joke falls flat. He gives a deep sigh, then takes my hand and replaces it on his shoulder. "We'll just have to find another way down."

---------------------------------------------

"McKay?"

"Hmm?" I listen with only half an ear, concentrating on where I'm putting my feet, and giving John enough warning to avoid an accident. We've been walking for what seems like hours, stopping occasionally so I can allow Sheppard a snatch of water. So far there have only been two near-disasters. The first when I stepped over a protruding root without giving it much thought, only for Sheppard to trip and fall flat on his face a few seconds later. The second time I was pushing too energetically through a dense patch of undergrowth, and a stray branch was flung back into his face.

He forgave me for the first but after the second he railed at me. _God dammit, McKay, _and _why the hell don't you watch what you're doing?_

After that it's been… quiet. Tense and quiet.

Which isn't a situation I'm terribly happy with. Not that being yelled at - quite unfairly, I might add - is my idea of fun, but at least it took my mind off - oh yeah, that we're running out of water, that it could be days before Atlantis finds us, that the Major has a serious head injury and I'm only torn between the pain from my thigh and the ache in my shoulder from where John's grip threatens to cut off circulation to my arm…

"McKay, you - you with me?"

"Huh?" I mentally shake myself and resume my concentration on the ground. "Sorry."

"I was… thinking." He's gasping softly.

God, I wish Carson was here.

"About?"

"The Wraith."

Oh. _That._

"It's probably dead," I reason. "And even if it survived, the crash site could be hundreds of miles from here."

"Or not," he points out.

Or not, I agree, silently. It's not something I'm particularly keen on focusing on. "So?"

"You should take my… gun."

"In case you haven't noticed, my hands are a little busy, Major."

"Then go on without me."

I stop abruptly, and he stumbles into me. "Sit," I order him, and probably more from surprise than anything, he obeys, allowing me to place a guiding hand under his elbow.

I pull the water out of my pack and press it into his hands. He needs both to hold it without shaking.

"In case you haven't noticed," I begin, watching him take a draft, "I don't do the outdoors, Major." I place a hand over my stomach, forgetting for a moment that he can't see. "I prefer my lab - or my bed. The couch is good too. And cable television. Endless Star Trek repeats and the Shopping Network."

He snorts, and lowers the bottle to rest in his lap. There is barely an inch left in the bottom. "Not that the idea isn't appealing to… to me too, but I think you're missing the point." Now he's sitting, the time between each shallow gasps has lengthened, and I allow myself to relax a fraction.

"No, I don't think so." I take the bottle from his hands carefully and replace the lid. "I'm not good at this, Major. As much as it kills me to admit this but - for once, this isn't something I can get us out of."

And it's true. Give me an engineering problem, a shield to fix, a power generator to rebuild, any theoretical physics question or stanza on wormhole technology and I'm your man. Best in my field, and best in the Pegasus Galaxy. Probably second best back on Earth, but Major Carter looks good on a pedestal.

"I'm slowing you down."

"Please," I scoff, "your sense of direction might leave a little to be desired but even in your, ah, current state, you are still helping me to move in a direction that is not almost entirely circular."

"McKay." He folds one hand under his arm, and lifts the other tentatively to the bandage on his head. "If the Wraith comes…"

"Then we will all be glad I had at least some weapons training before being allowed off-world."

"I'm a target."

"Yes," I say, locking up the bottle back into the bag, "you are. We both are. We're the only food the Wraith has for miles, unless it wants to stoop to sucking the life out of the odd bird or field mouse, and I suspect that would involve a _lot_ of mice. It might even give my cat a run for its money."

"McKay."

He's giving me his best growl, but given his current condition it's less than effective. "Your Scottish terrier impression isn't fooling anybody, Major, so give it up. I'm not ready to incur Elizabeth's wrath - which will be inevitable if I don't bring you home, even if I can't manage in one piece. And don't pout," I warn him, shouldering the bag, "it undermines your less than staggering masculinity. Now," I grab his hand, and haul him to his feet, "one foot in front of the other and no more stupidily misplaced heroics. They bore me."

He blinks foolishly for several long seconds, then shifts his hand back to its resting place on my back. I twist back around and face the front, giving a satisfied nod.

"Good boy."

"Don't push it."

---------------------------------------------

"The Wraith needs a name," I declare suddenly.

Rodney takes a moment to answer, and when he does there is a definite non-plussed tone to his voice. "You want to name it?"

"We can't just keep referring to it as the Wraith. It gets confusing." I feel, I realize, just a little drunk.

McKay heaves a thoughtful sigh. "Fine. What do you suggest? Nosferatu? Hellboy? Frankenstein's monster? All of the above would seem appropriate."

"Carl," I muse, running over names in my head. "Mark. Clive."

"Clive? Hardly the stuff of nightmares, is it?"

"That's kind of the point." Thoughts shift through my mind too quickly, like sand between fingers. "What's Kavanagh's first name?"

"David," he says, grimly.

"Dave." I grin.

"Nice," he drawls. "I'm sure Kavanagh will be so pleased. Dave the Wraith."

"Yup."

"Are you feeling alright, Major?"

I frown deeply, my forehead scrunching. "Yes. Fine."

"We should stop."

"I'm fine."

"We need a break," he persists.

"I'm good. Up and at 'em!"

It's then that McKay takes two quick, short steps and I stumble into him. We fall to the floor in a tangle of limbs, the ground knocking the breath out of me.

"We stop," he pants, extricating himself from under me.

"Okay," I agree, pulling myself into a sitting position. With a firm hand on my shoulder, McKay guides me in a scuffle backwards until my back is resting against something rough and uneven – I guess it's a tree trunk. "What time is it?"

There is a slight pause, then he snorts. "Not a clue. My watch has cracked."

Typical. "Then tell me what the sun is doing, McKay."

"Suns."

I heave a deliberately loud sigh. "McKay."

"Right. Okay, well – they're low. And, uh, dropping fast."

"We should camp for the night."

"Camp?" he squeaks. "But, ah, we don't have – don't we need tents to camp?"

"Did you bring a tent you forgot to tell me about?"

He pauses.

"I'm guessing you're giving me your patented glare of death, right now. Waste of time, McKay."

"Oh." There is the sound of something being dragged through leaves, and then suddenly I'm aware of him sitting in front of me, of his hands touching my forehead. "Glare of death, huh?"

I try not to wince when he undoes the bandage, but I can't stop a grimace when he peels the cloth from the wound. "Ask Zelenka. He'll agree with me. If looks could kill you'd have laser beams shooting out of your eyes."

"Useful, but it's been done."

"Really?" I drawl.

"Cyclops." He finishes replacing the bandage and I hear him sit back.

"X-Men was never my thing."

"Let me guess. Superman?"

"The best."

"Because he could fly."

"And he got the girl. Eventually."

McKay snorts. "Typical." He rummages in something to the side of me, then presses something cold into my right hand. "Water."

I lift the bottle to my lips cautiously, but when my teeth don't hit plastic I take a draft.

"Major…"

The water is cold, refreshing, easing the pain in my head and soothing my swollen tongue. It's only when the bottle jerks out of my grasp that I stop, trying to catch the last drops with my tongue.

"Sorry," McKay apologises, his voice quiet. "We have to save it."

"Right, right." I swallow. It's still hard to think straight, the injury filling my head with sawdust.

"So…" he hesitates, "what do I do now? Camping's never been my thing, Major."

"We need a fire."

"Oh." There is another pause. "Won't that attract the Wraith?"

"Dual suns, McKay. When they drop this planet is going to get pretty cold pretty damn quickly. It's either light a fire or freeze to death."

"Nice choice."

"We don't even know if the Wraith survived the crash."

"No," he admits, cautiously, but there's still reluctance in his voice.

"What?"

"Ah, Major – how exactly do you make a camp fire?"

I raise my eyebrows. "Never been camping, McKay?"

"Well of course," he huffed. "My father took me. But it was quite some time ago, Major." He hesitates. "I remember the basics. Dry leaves underneath…"

"Larger stuff above," I tell him. "And try and get branches from the trees, not the ground. They won't be damp."

"Right, right. I'll be back in a minute." He gets to his feet, and I can hear his footsteps moving away from me.

I sit, and wait, fingering the wound on my head gently. It seems to have stopped bleeding but my head feels light and empty, and aside from the obvious blindness I'm struggling to concentrate. My thoughts are scattered, rambling, and I suspect I should feel more tense than I am. For the past hour I've felt a tingling sensation in my legs, but I haven't told Rodney. There's nothing he can do that he hasn't already.

If he left me here, he could move quicker. Despite all his posturing McKay has proved he's a survivor, and Atlantis will be here soon. He could avoid the Wraith on our tail, find water, and be sitting pretty when Ford and Zelenka arrive for the inevitable rescue.

But our progress has been slow, dehydration is a real possibility, and despite this – I can't…

I can't ask him. Not yet.

The forest suddenly feels very cold, and all I can hear is the sound of the wind, and the movement of the trees. I lift my hand and put my fingers to my eyes, but there's no change. Surrounded by darkness, I'm overcome by a wave of claustrophobia and a desperate sense of despair.

I'm not going to make it off the planet. And if Rodney stays with me, then neither will he.

"McKay?"

My voice quivers. Christ, I hope he didn't hear that.

"Major?"

Aw, crap. "Just – ah, checking."

Checking? Checking what? That he hasn't abandoned me, left me alone in the dark?

I feel like I'm three years old and need a night light.

Must be the head wound.

"Sat on your ass, as usual?"

Panic is not the word. I almost leap out of my skin, pressing back against the rock and looking in the direction of the voice, straining to see anything past black. Because this can't be real, this can't be – he's _dead_ –

"Dad?" My voice barely rises above a whisper.

"Who did you think it was." The voice drops, moving closer. It sounds – it's perfect. My father died six years ago but I still hear his voice in my dreams – deep, a hint of gravel and steel beneath, warmth when he laughed – which was rarely with me. Not since I was a child.

Not since mom died.

My fingers find their way to my thigh and give a sharp, tight pinch.

"Ow."

"Checking something?"

"Oh," I say, and my own voice sounds a tad high-pitched, "just confirming something."

"Which is?"

"I hit my head harder than I thought."

"Hmpf." He moves again, coming closer, and I press myself sideways to escape him. "Doesn't look that bad to me."

Old, long buried feelings of resentment rise within me. "Well," I snap back, "in case you haven't noticed, I'm not seeing that well at the minute."

"And?"

"And! Dammit!" I curl my hand into the ground, feeling dirt beneath my fingers. "What do you expect me to do!"

"Get yourself up, find that Wraith, kill it, and then get out of here."

"You have got to be kidding me."

"You've still got two hands and two feet, right?"

"Dad." This is insane. "Forget it. I'm not arguing with you."

"Running away? That was always your forte."

"No," I hiss back. "It's just that I refuse to debate the merits of my injury with a figment of my own deluded imagination!"

"Major? I've got some wood." There is a sharp rustle and crack of undergrowth as Rodney makes his way towards me.

"Ah, good." I reach out with my right hand in the direction of my father, as though I can ward him off. Hesitantly: "You didn't see anything, anyone, while you were there?"

"Like who, Major?" He drops the wood to the floor. "Dave hasn't dropped in to say hi, no."

"Okay." It takes an effort on my part to level out my voice. "So you've got everything?"

"I know what I'm doing," he bites back. Then he pauses, and: "Sorry. Look, ah – it's small stuff at the bottom…"

"Larger stuff at the top."

"I remember."

"And don't…"

"Major," he snaps, "one more time and I will set that hair of yours on fire. We agreed you're in charge of being blind and I'm in charge of seeing. Anything I left out?"

I swallow whatever advice I was going to offer and drop my head. All the fear and panic I've been desperately trying to bury wells up and I feel flushed, my palms sweaty, my breath catching in my throat.

Christ. I am not - normally I have control. But this - I hate this…

McKay interrupts the silence with a loud, heavy sigh.

"Sorry. I – sorry."

Behind the apology there is fear of his own, barely restrained emotion serving to explain the tension. I lick my lips and manage: "It's okay. You're right, You know what you're doing. Your dad taught you."

"Yes." He lapses back into silence.

"So…" I prompt, not liking the topic but needing something to take my mind of the fact that now not only am I blind, I'm also doing a Hayley Joel Osmond – "where did he take you? Back yard, field…?"

"Oh, ah…" McKay hesitates. There is something off about his voice, but I can't place it. "There was a lake a few miles from the house. Pretty: trees, water, the usual. I'd wanted to go for months. On my eleventh birthday my mother packed up her sheets and a bag, and I waited out in the yard for him. He came home early and we spent the entire weekend out there."

"Nice."

"Yeah."

"You were close to your dad?"

"Well…" He coughs. "Actually, he left when I was thirteen."

"Oh." I pause, suddenly lost for words. "But he took you camping."

"Well, of course. All fathers do that."

I yawn and stretch out my legs, allowing my thoughts to drift. "I loved camping. My mom would make up this crate full of food, and my dad would load it into the back of the truck, and then we'd head up North. Do a little fishing, name the stars, tell ghost stories, toast marshmallows."

"Wish we'd brought some," McKay says, wistfully.

"I don't think the local 7-11 stocks them, McKay."

"No." His stomach growls audibly. "God, I'm hungry."

"You usually are. We have to save what we've got."

"I know, I know," he grumbles. I can hear him fumble with the fire, the sounds of branches being snapped and torn, and the scrape of a match against the rough side of a box. "Dammit, why won't this light?"

"You went camping but you've never built a fire?"

"Not since they threw me out of the Scouts, no."

I lean forward and shuffle towards McKay, feeling the damp earth beneath my fingers. "They threw you out of the Scouts? What did you do to deserve that?"

"There was a small issue with some missing fireworks that was blown out of all proportion."

"Literally speaking."

"Something like that." He reaches out and puts his hand on my wrist. "Far enough."

I stretch out a hand cautiously and bump into a rock. "Ow. Okay. Good start. You've got dry leaves, I hope?"

His tone is one of heavy exasperation. "No, Major, I thought I would scoop up the mulch from the bottom of a river. Yes, they're dry leaves."

"Good." I wrap my fingers over a thick tree branch and toss it behind me. "That one's too large."

"Okay, okay. I'm learning."

Carefully, I arrange the remaining firewood into a rough pyramid, then hold out my hand obediently. "Matches."

"Oh, right." There's a slight pause before he drops them into my open palm. "Be careful," he urges, as I struggle for a moment to find the right end.

"Is that better?" I ask, holding up the match.

"Yes. Yes, that's right." He places the matchbook carefully in my other hand. "Are you sure you can…"

I deftly flick the match against the rough side of the book and hear it ignite immediately. McKay shuts up, saying nothing as I drop the match into the firewood. Heat boils up through the air quickly and I move back, slipping the matches into my jacket pocket.

"Leave it to the expert," I say, smugly.

He huffs, but doesn't respond. There is another scuffle of leaves and then he presses something into my hand, cold and smooth and soft to the touch.

"Eat," he instructs.

"McKay…" Nausea roils in my stomach at the thought. "Not now."

"Eat," he repeats firmly, "before I have to put you on one of those charity posters."

"It's only been a few hours."

"Major."

Sighing, I take hold of the top corner of the packet and rip it carefully, making sure to put the trash in my pocket. "What is it?"

"Beef ravioli."

It's one that's the least salty and artificial tasting, and also one of McKay's favorites. "Thanks."

I can hear the distant rustle of him opening his own. "Do you think there are, ah…" He pauses, and clears his throat. "Um…"

"Spit it out." I take a mouthful of the ravioli and manage to swallow without gagging.

"Wolves."

"Wolves," I repeat, taking another bite.

"This being a forest, I'm just wondering, since, well, I'm more a _cat_ person really, and…"

"McKay, I don't think wolves are high on my list of concerns right now."

"Okay. Good, good."

After five mouthfuls the ravioli is threatening to make a repeat appearance. I reseal the MRE packet and put it into a pocket.

"Not hungry?"

"I'll save it for later," I tell him, settling back against the rock. The warmth of the fire is soothing, the smell of the smoke carrying in the chill night air, and I realise how exhausted I feel. But it's nice - relaxing, to the extent that I can almost forget about the pounding of my head and the tingling in my legs. It's just a camping trip, a vacation, but one without beer or fishing.

"I'll have to wake you every couple of hours," McKay says suddenly, his voice quiet.

"I know," I reply, closing my eyes, and pulling my jacket closer about my body.

"Okay."

"We'll get the Wraith tomorrow," I tell him.

He hesitates before responding. "We'll see, Major."


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Notes: Thank you for all the reviews! You're all lovely and far too kind. They're much appreciated and every one of you gets a Super! Action! Ford! to play with._

**North**

Chapter Two

The fire died a few hours before dawn.

For a while I think about restarting it, but since that went so well last time, in the end I decide not to bother. I dump my jacket over John, pulling the collar up to his chin. He mumbles in his sleep but doesn't wake up, though his breathing has resumed that strange, unnatural shallowness.

I wish Carson was here. At least he would know what to do. He's tried lecturing me but aside from the basics I'm pretty lost. I don't do sick people, and Sheppard – he's sick. And I don't know what to do about it.

Dammit.

We've gone through one bottle of water already and there isn't much of the other left. You'd think with all these trees around we would have stumbled across a river, or stream, or something by now – but it's possible the water is hidden deep below the rock beneath us. We might as well be in a desert, for all the good it does us.

We'll dehydrate before we starve to death.

Oh god. Atlantis still hasn't called in. I've checked my radio – the only thing that wasn't broken in the crash – but there's been nothing. We were due back hours ago, so where are they? Even needing to recalibrate the sensors to compensate for the planet's…

Unless there's more than one planet in the system, of course. Atlantis has no way of knowing what happened to us, whether we crashed, whether we're still with the Jumper or…

Or…

Oh crap. I'm not good at this. I'm not. Survival training was never something I took up as a hobby and even when inflicted on me by the lower species of the American military, I found ways to avoid it.

My bladder calls to me. Rising, I move away from the impromptu camp, giving Sheppard a backwards glance before heading out to a suitable bush. Just as he'd predicted, when the suns went down so did the temperature, and my fingers are now cold and uncooperative, and I struggle to undo the zip on my pants.

"You should dump him and set out on your own."

I let out a girlish shriek, one that I'm quite happy Sheppard sleeps through, and jump back a foot, stumbling against a root and falling back on my ass into the dirt. "Jesus!"

My father stands over me looking unimpressed, his eyebrow raised in a familiar expression of disgust. "Get up."

"Holy crap!" I shuffle back from him, digging my heels into the ground. "Oh god, oh crap, what, no, _who_ the hell are you?"

"Barbara Streisand." He snorts and turns away, moving towards the camp and allowing me space to scramble to my feet. "You should dump him and set out on your own."

"What?" The non sequitur throws me. "Who?"

"The Yank."

"What?" I shake my head and think back quickly. No, no lemon in the MRE. Chicken noodle - not my favourite, but harmless enough and one that isn't past its best for another five years. I checked.

Loss of blood combined with the dehydration. That has to be it. Unless I fell asleep at the campfire and didn't realise - in which case this is a dream so -

"Are you listening to me?"

Even for a dream, this is too accurate. Dressed in an expensively tailored suit, hair coiffured and arrogant smirk on his face, my father leans casually against a tree trunk and stares at me.

I blink several times, then close my eyes and count to thirty.

"And your teachers told me you were a genius."

Giving up, I open my eyes and glare back. "Yes, I'm listening. It doesn't appear I have much choice."

"It'd make a change. You never listened to me when you were a kid."

"You were never around long enough…" I break off and turn away, back to the bush. "What the hell am I doing, I'm talking to a ghost."

"Last I checked, I was still breathing."

"As though I should know. I haven't seen you in over twenty years, dad. And you decide to turn up now."

"Hey, it's your subconscious."

"And apparently it hates me."

My father saunters closer to the campfire, giving the shadowed form of Sheppard a cursory glance. "He's holding you back."

"He's holding…" I splutter into silence, zipping up my trousers and turning on this - this hallucination. "He's holding me back? I realise you spent most of my childhood riding your secretary over the table, but you might have noticed that the great outdoors has never been one of my happy places, and there is this astounding gap where any survival skills should be."

"You're a McKay," he retorts, "You don't need anyone."

"Yes I do," I shoot back, "I need - I need _him_. And why the hell am I explaining it to you! You don't even exist! A fevered hallucination brought on by, by…" I hesitate, wondering what condition might bring about delusions, "by hunger and blood loss."

He snorts and leans into a tree trunk. "That was always your mother's excuse, too."

I glare at him in the vain hope he'll disappear. "I'm amazed you were around long enough to notice."

"Hey, I did my part."

"A dollar cheque into the family account every month does not constitute fatherhood!"

"McKay?" Sheppard calls out from behind me. "You talking to me?"

"No," I snap back, then turn towards my father. "Just go back to whatever hell dimension spawned you, alright? You're not wanted."

"That's no way to talk to your father." He folds his arms and sneers at me. "You should show me some respect."

"Respect has to be earned, and it works both ways."

"You were a child!"

"Yes," I reply, taking a step towards him, "I was. And then you left. That pretty much curtailed our relationship." Deciding that if I can't wish him away, I should just ignore him, I turn my back on my father and head back towards Sheppard.

Awake, and still sitting by the tree, he has pushed my jacket to the ground and holds his own over his legs, his fingers curled around the collar. He's paler than he was yesterday, and the bruises around his eyes give him a racoon-like appearance.

"You should leave him behind," my father says, from behind me.

"No."

"You know what that makes you?"

I turn sharply on my heel to snap back at my subconscious, all the tightly bound fear and anger giving me the bravery I lacked when I was a child. "That man is going to die if I don't get him out of here, and I don't know what that makes me, but what it doesn't make me is you!"

Then I'm back walking towards the fire, breathing heavily with my father's voice in my ear.

"Look at you. Loser."

"McKay?"

There is a very faint quiver to Sheppard's voice, a note of desperation and fear that, in anyone else, I might have missed. But John Sheppard - irritated, angry, confused, frequently flirtatious, and even eerily calm - but not afraid; it's… disconcerting.

Not terrified. Not him.

So if, when I take a step towards the camp and tread on a brittle twig, snapping it loudly in two, put it down to clumsiness. And if I grasp his shoulder briefly as I pass - I'm just trying to steady myself.

Right.

"You take longer than most women I know," he jokes, feebly.

"A little like the pot calling the kettle black," I retort, dropping into a crouch beside the pack. "The man who spends twenty minutes in front of the mirror every morning, with half the products of Vidal Sassoon before him, should be more careful when throwing his insults around."

"Again with the hair." He raises an eyebrow. "Jealous, McKay?"

"Hardly." I fish out the remaining bottle of water and hand it to him, watching him drink. "Just a little."

"I know." He takes several mouthfuls then hands it back reluctantly.

"Have you eaten any more?"

"Are you my mother?"

"I'll take that as a no." I scowl, but only because he can't see me. Such a waste of my favourite flavour. "So," I clap my hands together, "as much as I'd like to allow you a lie-in, Major, we should be going."

He gives me an ineffectual growl, then puts his hands to the ground to lever himself up. I turn away, checking the seals of the pack, and idly kicking dirt over the embers of the fire. When I turn back, Sheppard hasn't moved, and is still seated against the tree trunk. His face is pinched and tight, his eyes screwed shut.

Alarm bells ringing, I venture: "Major?"

He takes a short, stuttered breath. "I can't."

The alarm bells are now sirens, and I have the hideous feeling that whatever the universe has thrown at me in the past, it's about to get a lot worse. "You can't what?"

"My, ah, my legs aren't working." He gives a strangled laugh and opens his eyes, reaching out blindly to pat his thighs. "I can't feel them."

Stark panic was suddenly looking tremendously attractive. "Are you sure?"

"Well, I sure as hell don't think it's just cramp!" he shouts, and his voice cracks on the final word. Sheppard drops his head, covering his face with his hands.

Alright - no need for hysteria. Later, back on Atlantis, in the privacy of my quarters - yes, there will be hysteria. I may assault the walls with some unwanted books and abuse some poor lab assistant in a vain attempt at revenge against the universe, but now - now, John's hunched over, his shoulders are trembling, and that sight terrifies me more than I will ever admit, to anyone.

"It's okay," I tell him, and provide the first pithy reassurance which comes to me: "It's probably just a side-effect of your injury, same as the blindness. It's temporary. As soon as we get back to Atlantis Carson will fix it."

"How?" he snaps back, angrily. "How the hell are we going to get back to Atlantis, McKay? Are you going to carry me all the way?"

"Dead meat," my father says, still lounging by a tree.

"If that's what it takes," I tell John, ignoring the hallucination. Picking up the pack, I carry it over to where Sheppard is sitting and push it into his lap before he's aware of what I'm going. "Put it on."

He runs his hands over the surface of the pack and latches on to one of the back straps. "What?"

"I can't carry you both."

"McKay, don't be insane."

"I don't know if you've noticed," I interrupt, grabbing the other strap and pressing it into his free hand, "But I'm not quite the couch potato you've labelled me as. Maybe, in Antarctica, you might have had a point but…" and I smooth my t-shirt across my chest, tugging it over my stomach, "not anymore."

He gives me this sort of half-smirk and cocks an eyebrow at me. "Really?"

"Yes," I huff. "Now shut up and put the pack on."

For once - and it will go down in the history books - John Sheppard actually listens to me. It takes him several moments to figure out how to put the pack on correctly but I'm not about to offer him help - meaningless as it is for me, it offers him some measure of control that otherwise, I can't help him with. Finally he finishes and lifts his head expectantly.

"So? Going to prove me wrong?"

"I frequently do." Until my first heart attack, anyway.

It takes a series of uncomfortably intimate and awkward moves before I successfully pull him over my shoulder, and when I first push to my knees they almost fold beneath the extra weight in protest. After a second my body seems to have adjusted itself to the new baggage and despite my injured thigh screaming at me for attention, I ignore it and take a shambling step forward.

"McKay, you good?" he asks.

"Fine." My voice comes out as a squeak. The next step is surer, and I shift my shoulders slightly to take some of the weight from my ribs. "You realise," I tell him, settling into an uneven stride, "once we get back to the city and Carson announces I've become a permanent cripple, I fully expect you to wait on me." My left foot stumbles into a puddle, water seeping over the top of my boot and soaking my sock. "Hand and foot."

"I'll delegate," he breezes, his voice muffled by my pant leg. "You know from this angle, I'm developing new appreciation for my disability."

His teasing cuts sharply. "You're not disabled," I snap, struggling to reconcile speaking with breathing. "And don't annoy the packhorse."

"Camel," he corrects.

I'm confused. "Camel?"

"Foul smelling, ill-tempered, and will bite if provoked."

It takes all my restraint and selfless humanity not to drop him on his head.

---------------------------------------------

I have to admit, I'm impressed. Although I've never thought Rodney as the lump of lard he seems to think I take him for, I wasn't expecting him to last this long. Sure he's wheezing like an asthmatic and has been complaining bitterly, but it's mostly melodrama. It leaves me feeling pretty pathetic, slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, my only duty being a struggle to not spew down McKay's pant leg. Oh, and to listen to the barrage of insults from the ghost of my dead father.

"If you had listened to me, you wouldn't be in this mess."

McKay is rattling off a detailed and exceedingly boring account of some amazing, masterful, original, ingenious – it's _McKay_ – scientific breakthrough achieved back on Atlantis. I stopped making appropriately timed 'hmms' and 'ohs' a good while back but he hasn't noticed. I suspect the chatter is a simple way of turning his thoughts away from our trek through the forest and my weight across his back, and I'm not about to cheat him of that, even if I'm not about to indulge in some ego-stroking. He sure as hell doesn't need it.

He's so absorbed in his own voice Rodney seems completely deaf to my hissed whisper.

"And how exactly do you figure that? Did you pop in the jumper to help us fix it, and I missed it in the crash?"

"If you'd followed my advice you wouldn't be out here, wasting your life like this."

"Where in particular? This forest? I happen to like it. Green." I consider this, and correct myself, "I imagine."

"This mission, this galaxy. This isn't where you should be. What's wrong with your own back yard?"

"I'd like to think," I shoot back, keeping my voice low, "that what happens out here is pretty damn important."

"You think it helps Earth? You think anyone on Earth would even care if they knew? No. You abandoned your men back home."

"I was demoted."

"Through your own doing. You lost your command."

"I have a command."

"Not yours." He pauses. "I liked Sumner. He was a good man."

I bite down on a retort, swallowing bile.

"Major?" My self-designated 'packhorse' shifts and in a move which leaves me to hit the ground butt first, McKay drops me. The awkward landing jars every bone in my body and makes my brain rattle within my skull.

"Okay." He pants loudly, dropping down to the ground. "That's good. Stopping is good. Just for a minute."

I'd argue with him but McKay's the most stubborn man I've ever met and trying to change his mind is like bringing down the Great Wall of China with a child's bucket and spade. Meaningless, futile, and ultimately very stupid.

"Here." He presses a bottle into my hand. I drink quickly and eagerly, my throat parched and my head humming, but it's gone in a matter of seconds.

"Major, be careful…"

I drop my hand and allow the empty bottle to roll my fingers. It's an effort to make my body move. God, I'm tired.

"That's okay." He sounds nervous, his hand brushing mine as he leans over me and retrieves the bottle. "How are you feeling? Legs not suddenly sprung back into life?"

"Sorry, no." Experimentally I press the back of my hand against my cheek. I should feel something other than the cold, but the sensation is as abstract as though I were watching an actor on stage. "I've stopped sweating," I say, matter-of-factly.

"Aside from that being slightly too much information…" He pauses, then asks with dread, "That's bad, isn't it?"

"Oh," I shrug casually, "a little."

"How much is a little?"

I decide not to answer him, allowing the silence to speak for itself. I should be worried, panicking even, but there's nothing, just that dull abstracted curiosity and the ever pervading exhaustion.

"Oh." I imagine McKay is wringing his hands. "Well, ah, good thing this is only a short stop."

There was something else, something aside from my impending death by dehydration. Oh yes – the _other_ option. "Any sign of Dave?"

"Who?"

"The Wraith."

"Oh, right. No. He probably died on impact."

He doesn't believe that anymore than I do, but usually McKay would be better at hiding it. "Probably."

"So," I can hear him shifting about in the leaves beside me, "we should get going again, before my back goes into spasm."

"And here I was believing in your super human abilities." I pause, allowing him to clumsily haul me back up onto his shoulder. He groans slightly when forcing himself up, and takes a staggered step to the right before finally finding his feet.

"I'll have you know," he pauses to take a deep breath and ends up hacking on a cough.

I wait patiently for him to stop spluttering. "Yes?"

"It's hereditary," he manages. "Family history of back problems. Dragging your carcass across the galaxy is doing me untold permanent damage."

It's a thankfully rare experience to witness but McKay has a talent for using empty guilt trips as a way of deflecting attention from any of those more noble characteristics; bravery, ingenuity, loyalty and all round heroism. It wasn't until the incident with the energy sucking creature that his depths became clear to me, that for McKay, modesty is found in unexpected places. At present I'm quite willing to indulge his mock-up of hypochondria if he feels the need to hide behind it.

That doesn't mean I have to listen to it for the entire time, however.

"We should keep our spirits up."

"Oh god," he groans. "This isn't one of those inane military ideas? One, two, one, two, in endless repetition?"

"Not quite." I think of my record collection, downloaded to the Atlantis database by McKay himself after I bribed him with a hidden box of Snickers. "It should be something… rousing."

"I'm not singing," he says. "And I'm quite sure I don't want you to."

"Oh, come on. I've been told I have a good voice."

"Lose one of your other senses, did we?" The shoulder suddenly drops beneath me and the jolt knocks the wind from me, prompting a mild yelp. I swear it was deliberate. Vindictive son of a bitch. "I don't do singing," he says. "Not in the shower, not in my lab, and not here. Not singing. I'm not singing."

"Oh come on," and I allow a whine to enter my voice, the tone I know McKay despises. "Just a little."

"Major – no."

"McKay…"

"No singing."

---------------------------------------------

"I'm waiting on the pardon that'll set me free with…"

"Nine more minutes to go…"

"But this is for real so forget about me…"

"Eight more minutes to go…"

"With my feet on the trap and my head on the noose…"

"Seven more minutes to go…"

"Five, McKay."

"What?"

"It goes nine, eight, then five."

"That doesn't make sense."

"But that's how it goes."

"But…"

"McKay!"

"Fine."

"With my feet on the trap and my head on the noose…"

"Five more minutes to go…"

"Won't somebody come and cut me loose…"

"Major, this is an incredibly morbid song."

"I know."

"Are all of them like this?"

"Just the good ones. Won't somebody cut me loose…"

"With four more minutes to go…"

---------------------------------------------

"If you could have one super power, what would it be?"

I roll my eyes, though given Sheppard's condition the act is pointless. "I see we've reached mature conversations."

"What? Religion, politics? Nah." His voice is muffled, spoken into my thigh. "It's too early."

"Alright," I concede, shifting Sheppard slightly to the right to stop him from falling off my shoulder. In a vain attempt to spread the pain evenly across my back I've positioned him in reverse, head first, his legs hanging down my back. "Super powers."

It's not like I haven't given the matter great thought. When you're planning your godhood, it's the sensible thing to do.

"Well… omniscience. Although I dare say I come close to that already, so what would be the point?"

"Telepathy?" he suggests.

I shudder. "God, no."

"No, maybe not. You're not a people person, McKay. Telekinesis?"

"Tempting." I briefly scan a number of interesting ideas on how to torment Kavanagh. "Better to have minions. Less effort." My foot – the right one, of course – is suddenly jolted and it throws me, almost sending John crashing. I grab him in time, right myself, and glare at the guilty tree root. "Sorry."

"What is it?"

"What?" I flush. "Nothing."

"What's wrong?"

"Your spidey sense tingling, Major?"

"Don't give me that." One of his hands taps my thigh smartly. "You're listing. You're hurt."

"Oh. It's a scratch."

"Bull. Rodney…"

"It's a scratch," I repeat, insistently. "One that simply protests on carrying your heavy ass around everywhere. You'd think someone as scrawny as you would weigh less than this."

He growls. "You're lying. Put me down."

"No." I jerk my shoulder purposefully, bumping Sheppard sharply. "I cut my leg on something in the crash, that's all. It's not that bad, I can still walk. So leave it alone, alright?"

He waits several moments before answering, in a quiet voice, "Alright."

"Good." I lower my head, concentrating on the ground beneath my feet. "Now what about you?"

"What?"

"Super powers."

"That's easy." His left hand separates itself from its grip on my shoulder briefly and swoops in front of my face, spread flat and the thumb and little finger sticking out. "I'd be able to fly."

I grunt, and shift his weight again. "That would be good right about now."

"Ah." His hand resumes its grip on my upper arm. It's tight enough to bruise, but I know better than to call him on it. "So," he continues, breezily, "Not omniscience, not telepathy, not telekinesis…"

"I haven't ruled that one out," I correct.

"So what? What would Super McKay like as a power?"

I concentrate on the ground, and on the rhythm I've developed to keep John's weight distributed across my shoulder and back, one that won't send me to the ground. There are muscles aching I didn't know existed until recently, my toes are numb, but the spike of pain driven from my heel to my hip every time I take a step – that's still present. My throat is dry, my eyes feel scratchy and itchy, and there's a jackhammer in my skull – but I know none of this can compare to how Sheppard must be feeling right now.

"Foresight," I answer, through clenched teeth.

"Yeah," he breathes softly. "I wouldn't mind some of that."

---------------------------------------------

"Sittin' on the dock of the bay…"

"Watching the tide roll away…"

"Sittin' on the dock of the bay…"

"Wastin' time…"

"Left my home in Georgia…"

"Headed for the Frisco Bay…"

"I had nothin' to live for…"

"Looks like nothin's gonna come my way…"

"I'm just sittin' on the dock of the bay…"

---------------------------------------------

"For it was all ripe for dreaming…"

Although I'd left him going solo some time ago, my breath stolen by the ever increasing band of pain around my thigh and by the thundering hammer of my heart in my chest, Sheppard has been carrying on without me quite happily. Off-key and rhythm free with enough talent to make my old piano teacher roll in his grave, he's blared meaningless snatches of half-forgotten lyrics into my thigh and completely ignored my pleas for him to stop.

"Oh, how we danced away all of the lights…"

"Major, please."

"We've always been out of our minds…"

"No argument from me," I say, ruefully. Between his singing and my own harsh breathing, it's difficult to hear the sounds of the forest, but there is something, something beneath Sheppard's voice, a roaring, rushing sound -

"The rum pours strong and thin…"

"Major!"

"It's Tom Waits!" he protests, as though the name is supposed to mean something to me. "Oh, how we danced with the Rose of Tralee…"

"Shut up!" I twist violently and drop to my knees, pushing him off my shoulder to the ground roughly. He lands on his side and looks so surprised he finally stops singing.

"What?"

"I hear something," I snap, staggering back up onto my feet.

Now I can hear it - a bubbling, tearing, fluid noise, unmistakable - the sound of running water. Leaving Sheppard to pull himself into a sitting position, I turn and push through the forest a short distance. Only a few meters away there is a break in the trees and I force myself past a dense bush to stumble out on a sudden slope, dipping away from the top of the hill. To stop my descent I reach out and grab the nearest branch, its thorns slicing my palm.

Below me the ground falls away down a steep, muddy slope dotted with bushes and trees. At the bottom lies a wide, flat area of land that carves its way through the landscape in a series of gentle curves before disappearing behind an outcrop of distant mountain. The river lies in the middle, deep and black in its centre, white and frothy as it bounces over shallow rocks, and there are signs of frequent flooding on either side, the space barren of anything larger than an oversized fern.

In one simple step two of our problems are solved - water and enough land to comfortably house a jumper. My assessment of the universe suddenly goes up a notch.

Turning, I scramble up the slope and head back towards where I left Sheppard. John is sitting up against a tree, his arms folded across his chest. The glare he gives me would be a lot more effective if it wasn't directed at a point six inches to my right.

"What was that about? You just run off?"

"Sorry." I'm suddenly feeling so exhilarated that I can ignore the accusation. "There's a river."

He blinks. "Really?"

"A great, wide river. Here." I bend down and haul him awkwardly back onto my shoulder. This time I don't even feel the protest from my thigh.

Sheppard clutches at my arm to stop himself from falling off. "Is it far?"

"Nope." I grin, although he can't see it, pushing past the undergrowth towards the blissful, wonderful sound of the river below. "Now it's not that I want to say I told you so, but given your complete lack of faith in me I hope that I deserve at least some form of recognition for finding…"

I'm so caught up in my eagerness that I completely forget the slope, and the mud, and the extra weight I carry, so when my foot suddenly shoots out from under me I can't stop myself from falling to the wet ground, Sheppard tumbling from my shoulders. We slide down the small hill, building speed, arms and legs snagged by branches and leaves, mud soaking through my clothes and coating my face and hair. Sheppard comes to a stop a few seconds before I do, a loose covering of stone rubble resisting his continued descent. I manage to kick myself to a stop a few inches from him and lie there for several seconds, panting.

Eventually I've caught my breath enough to be able to speak. "Major? Are you okay?"

He speaks so quietly I can barely make out the words. "I have faith in you, McKay."

I was expecting insults, condemnations for our sudden fall. Not this. "Oh." I stare at the sky for several moments. A warm flush spreads across my cheeks.

"You should look where you're going, though."

"I was a little preoccupied." Slowly I push myself onto my knees and crawl across to where Sheppard is lying. He seems unruffled by the sudden fall, staring blindly up into the sky, one arm lying across his chest, the other on the rocky ground, his fingers feeling the shape of the stones. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah." He licks his lips. "Thirsty."

"Right, right." I maneuver myself around him and push him into a sitting position so I can access the backpack. Pulling out the two empty bottles of water, I head down the remaining slope to the banks of the river, kneeling down in the mud to fill the containers. The water is icy cold against my fingers, turning brown where a cloudy mix of blood and mud is washed from my skin.

Sheppard says nothing when I press the water into his hands, but he drinks eagerly and quickly, and after several seconds his grip has steadied to the point at which I can remove my hold and pick up my own bottle.

Cool and soothing, the water runs down my throat, soothing abused cords and the rubbed raw feeling, reminding me of just how long it's been since I last drank anything. It's one of the most beautiful things I've ever tasted.

"Wow."

"Yeah." He grins. "Pretty good, huh?"

"It's like…" I pause. "Mountain Dew."

"Snapple." He takes another long draught then pulls the bottle away, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. "Too bad no one brought any to the Pegasus Galaxy."

"This will do as a substitute."

We both drain the bottles too quickly, and taking the empty one from John I head back to the river to fill them up, trying to plan our next move.

"Still here, I see?"

I sigh, deeply. "Never has the phrase 'bad penny' seemed so hugely appropriate."

"And here I was thinking you wanted me around more."

"When I was a child, dad. The ship has pulled up anchor, left the harbor, and is disappearing behind the horizon."

"So what? You think you can create a new family, picture perfect?" My father shifts his feet further apart, balancing himself on the rock on which he stands.

"I was hoping," I say, turning away from him, concentrating on bottling the water.

"These people aren't your family, Rodney. They only want you for those brains of yours."

I lift my head and snap: "Would that be so bad?"

"Would what be so bad?" Sheppard calls out, still seated against the rocks.

"Nothing." I toss him a bottle of water carelessly. It hits the ground a few inches from his feet. "Drink."

"Door mat. You always were. Allowing your mother to coddle you."

I turn sharply back to the apparition. "Coddle me? Is that what that was? Dragging me around to her women's luncheons like I was a performing puppy? Using me to feel better about herself?"

"You did it then and you're doing it here. They don't care about you." He narrows his eyes and stares at me, and I shift uncomfortably under his gaze.

"That's - that's not true." Dammit.

"You think by lugging his ass around this planet he's going to like you?"

"That's not why…" I stop, and glance back at Sheppard, repeating in a low whisper, "That's not why I'm doing this."

"Then why?"

---------------------------------------------

"Because he's my friend," I snap, fumbling blindly at the water bottle Rodney threw at me.

"That geek? He's weak."

"No." I wrap my hands around the bottle, the plastic cold against my fingers. "He isn't. If it wasn't for McKay I'd still be in the jumper at the bottom of that cliff."

"And you can't do this on your own?"

"No!" I retort, gripping the bottle tightly in my right hand and struggling to undo the top with my left. My legs feel odd, strangely detached from my body, and there's a tingling sensation in my feet. "Take a good look, dad! I'm not in peak condition at the minute and if he hadn't -"

"You should leave him behind."

I snort, both at the insanity and at the overwhelming sense of deja-vu. "You were always like this. You never listened."

"I listened to you."

"No you didn't! You never listened!"

"Yes I did!" McKay calls back, his voice distant.

"I'm not talking to you!" I shout back, then twist back to retaliate: "What would you have me do? I don't leave people behind."

"And that's always been your problem. A good soldier can make difficult choices."

"Abandoning people?"

"Obeying orders. But that's always something you had problems with."

"Right." I grimace at my own stupidity, absently rubbing at my thighs. "I should have known that's what this was about. Afghanistan."

"You could have made full Colonel by now if you hadn't made a jackass of yourself!"

"They were my men!"

"And what good did it do you? They're still dead."

His words cut more deeply than I will ever admit. No matter how coaxing Zelenka's home-made swill can be, or how many times Heightmeyer pokes, bottom line is I failed my men - my friends - and I won't do it again. Not to anyone, and sure as hell not McKay.

"You're throwing your life away out here, and it shames me to see it."

---------------------------------------------

"Throwing my life away?" I push myself to my feet, taking a step towards the hallucination. "Is that what I'm doing?"

"You're going to get killed if you keep allowing yourself to be used like this. Clinging to a deluded notion of familial ties with these people."

"Maybe that's what I want," I reply, taking another step forward. "Did you ever think of that?"

He shakes his head at me. "You're talking nonsense."

"No, you've got a point. I mean, maybe you're right, maybe I am deluding myself into thinking that for once somebody actually wants me around for something other than my genius. Hell, it's not like it's happened before, and maybe that's fine with me, maybe I'd rather die for that than live the way my own family so enjoyed!"

He takes a step towards me, but I don't back off, even when he jabs a finger towards me. "And why do you think you're in a position to lecture me about our family?"

"Because I lived it!" And I reach out and swipe a hand through my father's torso. His image flickers, then abruptly disappears, leaving only the sound of the river and the forest around us.

Wow. Wish I'd done that when I last saw him. Although at thirteen years old, short and pudgy and in three classes ahead of my year, I doubt I'd have had the strength.

Funny, actually. If, little than a year ago, a Dr Phil reunion special had brought my father and I together, I'm not sure I'd have had the strength then, either.

My thoughts are suddenly disrupted by a flash of blue light and an explosion in the water behind me. Scrambling over the rocks I hurry back towards Sheppard, pausing briefly to glance up at the tree line to spot a dark shadow flitting through the undergrowth.

"What is it?" One of his hands is fumbling at the gun holster on his thigh, and the other reaches towards me.

"Dave." I grab his flailing hand by the wrist and push it to his side, then attempt to lift him up onto my shoulder. He pushes me away, pressing against my chest.

"Wait."

"Wait!" I protest. Another blast disappears into the river. It's only the slope of the hill that seems to be throwing off Dave's aim. "Until when? Until we're Wraith food?"

"My legs." His fingers latch around the cloth of my vest and tug me closer. "It's probably a result of some property in the water but - I think I can feel them."

"Oh." I take a deep breath and glance back up into the trees. "That's - that's great, Major, and believe me, I'd be dancing for joy right now if there wasn't a little…"

"Help me up."

"Major…"

"Help. Me. Up," he says, between gritted teeth.

With another desperate look up into the forest, I hunker down beside Sheppard and wrap an arm around his waist, pulling him upright, prepared to take his weight. To both our surprises his legs hold him up - shaky, true, and I'm not about to release my hold on him anytime soon, but he's upright, and it's a blessing for which my back is truly thankful.

"See?" he huffs, triumphantly, trembling into my support.

"Great. That's great. I'll throw you a party later." I yank him abruptly to the right, in time for a third blast to turn the rock Sheppard was propped against to smithereens. "His aim's getting better."

"Good for him." He takes several staggered steps with me as I drag him up the slope a few meters, hoping the elevation will make us a harder target to aim at.

It appears to be having limited effect. Another stunner bolt hits the rocks behind me. "Oh god. We're going to die."

"You always say that," Sheppard pants. The shaking seems to be subsiding, his legs able to take more of his weight, and I risk unlooping my arm from around his waist. He sways for a second, then reaches out to place his hand on my back.

"You okay?"

"I'm good. Go, go."

I stumble over the ground, my feet slipping and sliding in the scree. For a brief moment I think - maybe he was right, maybe my father got one thing right in his miserable relationship with me - maybe I shouldn't be here.

Maybe I am going to die here.

"My father never took me camping."

It's out before I can stop myself. Sheppard's fingers dig a little deeper into my back as I pause, breathless, steadying myself against a large boulder.

"Is this really the time, McKay?"

Probably not, I figure, but when is it? Something burns within me, a strange, twisted desire for honesty. This is probably what a death bed confession feels like.

"I lied. He didn't do…"

"The outdoors?" he suggests.

"Children. Brunette PAs," I add, grimacing, "those he did in wild abundance. But not kids. He was never, ah - he never took to parenting."

Now there's an understatement.

A stunner bolt hits the rock a few inches from my shoulder and I let out a small yelp, ducking and running forward. Sheppard follows, his hand on my back.

"Really, McKay - is this going to take long?"

Up ahead lies a mound of rocks and rubble from where the hillside has fallen away, carrying a large fir tree in its wake. The tree lies on its side, its tip reaching out across the river bed, still green with fresh foliage.

"Everything else was true," I explain, dropping one hand to pull my gun from its holster. "I borrowed my mother's sheets, I packed up a crate of food, and then I waited out in the yard for him to come home." I spy a shadow in the trees above me and turn, grabbing Sheppard by the arms and pulling him down to a kneeling position. "Duck."

Another blast erupts overhead, and sends leaves and twigs showering from overhead. Without pausing, I grab John's wrist and tug him onwards, now heading back down the slope towards the relative safety of the tree. "All I wanted was to spend some time with him, to talk to him, to get to know him."

Sheppard suddenly loses his footing in the mud, his hand slipping from my shoulder, but I grab him before he can fall and jerk him upright. "He promised he would be there but he never turned up."

"Did he -" Sheppard pants, "apologize?"

My father? "Hah! No. He came home in the early hours of the morning and the next time I saw him it was two days later. He didn't say a thing about it, and I didn't bring it up. I'd unpacked everything and cleaned the sheets - what was the use?"

I had tried to forget it, to bury it, along with the rest of my lonely and bitter childhood. But suddenly, now, explaining it - confessing it - to Sheppard, my own personal minister -

It doesn't feel as bad as I thought it would.

A bolt sizzles in the air two feet to our left. I do my best to ignore it and drop forward, scrambling over stones and through mud.

"My point is," I explain, "I never went camping. I never did any of that father-son bonding stuff. I lied. I guess - I didn't want you thinking that before we die."

"We're not going to die," he retorts sharply.

"Tell that to Dave," I reply, and then suddenly we're at the tree, and I'm hauling Sheppard around a root and pushing him down against its wide trunk. I reach out to his thigh and pull the gun from his holster before he can stop me, pressing a hand briefly to his chest.

"Stay here."

Then I turn, ignoring his protest. With a gun in both hands I feel like something out of a Western, Clint Eastwood, stepping out into the village square to face off against the bad guys.

Although I'm sure Clint never shook like a leaf when he did it. Hell, why should he, he was an actor, and never saw this - a Wraith, a seven foot tall bundle of muscle. His skin is gray, hints of green and brown across its arms and cheeks, his white hair down to his waist. His skin is taut across his bones, and I swear, I can see his skull in places. A deep, oozing wound runs from his forehead to his jawbone, and his left eye is little more than a hideously dark hole, the flesh still torn and bloody.

I guess that explains the poor aim.

"Hey!"

Oh god - oh _god_. What the hell am I doing?

The Wraith stares at me and grins, revealing a mouth full of sharp white teeth and dripping saliva.

I lift both hands and see, to my surprise, that they're not shaking. Dave seems surprised too - he suddenly has this strange expression on his face, part bemusement, part shock, as though he never expected the meal to fight back.

Hell, neither did I.

And that's when I fire both guns at the same time. All the training that I groaned and complained and moaned through, fighting John every step of the way - it pays off. Okay, so that tree to Dave's left is now missing a branch and I've scared a few birds but the rest of the bullets - they hit the mark. Shoulder, chest, and - thank god - Dave's head.

He staggers backwards and I keep firing, suddenly aware that I'm screaming, angry at him, angry at my father, angry at the whole damn universe for continually dealing me and Sheppard such a lousy hand.

"I don't need this!"

I fire another round into his chest. An explosion of green blood bursts from his shoulder but Dave suddenly sways forward, taking a step towards me, still grinning with a mouthful of teeth and hunger that barely registers over my fury.

"I'm a damn scientist!" A bullet clips the side of Dave's head, streaking green along his white hair. My own gun is now empty and I discard it, wrapping both hands around the weapon I took from Sheppard.

"I wanted a lab, and a stool, and a couch, and the cover of New Scientist!"

Dave ignores the bullet in his arm and lifts up the stunner, pointing it towards me.

"Nowhere in the plan did it call for alien planets," and a bullet disappears into the bushes, "and forests," and I fire a shot into Dave's thigh, "and goddamn life sucking aliens trying to kill me and my best friend! Who, by the way," and I pull the trigger once, "is still," twice, "goddamn," three times, "blind!"

The trigger clicks, the chamber empty. Dave is still staggering towards me, face split by a grin, his missing eye staring at me from the hole where it once was, his right hand outstretched, his palm flat. I pat my uniform, looking for extra rounds, but my mind's gone blank and all I can think is -

I throw the gun, as hard as I can, towards Dave's head.

I was never good at sports. It misses him by a small mile and disappears into the forest behind him.

The Wraith laughs, a twisted, grotesque noise from deep within its chest. It's going to kill me, me and then Sheppard, or maybe the other way around, and I suddenly can't decide which might be worse - watching Sheppard die, and knowing I'm next, or going first and leaving Sheppard behind - injured and blind and with no idea of what -

There is a sudden, distant rumbling noise. Dave hears it at the same time I do, cocking his head, his one remaining eye flickering towards the side.

The sound is familiar - branches creaking, then tearing, the rustle of leaves and the great groan of shifting earth, of rocks colliding against other rocks, of the skitter of earth across mud. I've heard it before, here on the planet, and for once the universe grants my wish.

Foresight.

Unable to repress an alarmed yelp I turn sharply and run, bounding across the ground, my foot threatening to twist on the rocks. A stunner blast narrowly misses my side but I manage to avoid it and throw myself forward, over the trunk of the fallen tree, jarring my back painfully in the process.

"What's going on?" demands Sheppard, trying to push himself upright.

With a quick shove to his shoulder I knock John back on his ass and then lever myself upwards, looking cautiously over the tree trunk. Dave still stands in the clearing, his confusion growing, turning towards the source of the increasing noise.

The hillside moves. An area maybe ten meters wide, stretching from the top of the slope to the bottom, a great mass of mud and rocks that slowly pulls away from its grounding and starts to slide inexorably towards the Wraith. It picks up speed quickly, too fast for Dave to do anything other than stand and watch as the entire hill - trees, bushes and all - comes hurtling down towards him.

The force sweeps him off his feet. An avalanche of mud buries him in seconds, pulling him down, covering his legs and torso and arms and then his head, white hair disappearing into the dirt. The stunner glimmers briefly in the sunlight before it too is consumed by the hillside.

I duck back, pressing myself against the tree. Beside me, John does the same, gripping a branch tightly. Together we wait out the avalanche, feeling our anchor vibrate, shift a few terrifying inches, then stop. The sound of thunder fades, the ground beneath us steadies, and after a few seconds I risk another peep over the trunk.

The avalanche has stopped. There is a hole where half the hill used to be, and its remains have swept down the slope towards the river, Dave the Wraith entombed within.

Releasing a long, shaky breath, I allow my legs to fold under me and drop down beside Sheppard, pressing my forehead to my knees.

"I'm guessing," John hesitates, and licks his lips, "we got our man?"

"Yes." I manage to lift my head and wipe a hand across my eyes. "Yes we did."

"But he's dead?" he asks.

"Oh yes. Very dead."

---------------------------------------------

"And if I should falter…"

"Would you open your arms out to me?"

"We can make love not war…" Sheppard takes a swig from the bottle, and then continues: "And live at peace with our hearts."

I stretch out my injured leg and yawn, watching a cloud drift across the blue sky. Fluffy and white, in shape it reminds me of a ZPM. "I'm so in love with you…"

"I'll be forever blue…" Sheppard wails, twitching his feet in time with the song.

There is a black dot to the left of the cloud, and it's growing bigger. "What religion or reason could drive a man to forsake his lover?"

John joins in with the chorus: "That you give me no, that you give me no, that you give me no…"

"_Um, sirs?"_

"Soul…" Sheppard continues, oblivious to the radio crackle.

I hit the receive button as Ford says, hesitantly: _"Major? Doctor McKay?"_

"We're here, Lieutenant. About time you showed up. Stop for a trip around the galaxy first, did we?"

"_Sorry, doc', we…"_

"It's been two days!" I snap back, not wanting to hear excuses.

"_Rodney,"_ says Zelenka, his tone sharp and biting, _"do you know how long it took to recalibrate these sensors? Did you stop to check how many planets were in this system? Did you…"_

"I hear you calling…"

I slap Sheppard on the thigh but he ignores me, opening his mouth to launch back into song.

"Oh baby please…"

"_Major?"_ Ford sounds a trifle scared, and I don't blame him.

"He's fine." I eye Sheppard cautiously, ready to change my assessment. He sits upright and sways unevenly, his face pale.

"Give a little respect…"

"Um, Lieutenant? If you could hurry the rescue up, that would be great."

"_Sure thing, doc'."_ He hesitates. _"Has the Major been drinking?"_

"You would think that, but no."

"Give a little respect.." Sheppard repeats, his words slurring. I grab his arm to steady him as he slips forward, and pat his cheek with my free hand.

"Major? If you could stay awake for just a few more minutes…"

He gives me a sloppy, uneven grin. "A little respect…" Then he blinks, frowns, mumbles 'respect' for the fourth time and then falls face first into my lap, unconscious.

I sigh deeply, and roll him over so he's lying on his back, his head propped up on my legs. "Anytime you're ready, Lieutenant."

---------------------------------------------

Beckett assured me that my disability was only the result of my head wound, that it was being treated, and that when I'd next awake I'd find my eyesight restored, back to 20/20 vision.

I wasn't sure I believed him.

Allowing Carson to inject my IV line with painkillers, feeling the firm pull of dreamless sleep - it should have been terrifying, and yet…

I could hear McKay. He never stopped talking; not unusual for Rodney, but for the first time, it was comforting. He talked to me while we waited for Ford to land the jumper, sitting beside the river enjoying the sun's warmth. He talked over me in the Jumper, demanding answers from Zelenka as to 'why the hell did it take you so long,' and giving Ford long and exaggerated accounts of his firefight with the Wraith. On the way to the infirmary he talked, listing my symptoms to Carson, proclaiming his new found super status to Elizabeth, and debating his hero nickname with Grodin.

And he talked in the infirmary, bickering with Carson as the doc' fussed over me, annoying the poor nurse appointed as his guardian, and telling me that as soon as I was back on my feet, he intended to volunteer me as his personal aide during the necessary period of physical therapy.

For his back, obviously.

It was oddly comforting. The reminder that even if Carson was wrong, even if I was only going to wake to more darkness - I wasn't going to be alone.

After all, he hadn't left me in the forest, had he?

Waking is slow and arduous, a struggle that speaks of long, pain free hours smothered by Beckett's best drugs. The infirmary is quiet, the only sound coming from the soft beeping of a machine near my bed, and someone's soft, stuttered snoring.

Very slowly I crack open one eye, then the other, battling a gooey substance caked under my eyelids.

For the first few, panicked seconds I can't see anything except darkness. Then I start to make out shapes, shadows, dim lights in the ceiling over my head. The shadow of an IV pole, a heart monitor, switched off, a huddled shape on the bed beside mine. McKay twitches in his sleep, mumbles, then rolls over and resumes snorting, a dark outline against the distant light of the nurse's station.

Relief overwhelms me, prickles the corners of my eyes and leaves me feeling breathless and exhausted. But then I try to pick up other details in the room, the identity of the figure slumped at the desk, the display on the opposite wall, and despite squinting I'm unable to see anything more than shapes. Dark silhouettes and smudges and I panic.

What if Carson was wrong? What if this is all I'm getting back, this dulled, colorless half-sight, what if I can never fly again, what if…

Suddenly the lights in the infirmary bloom into full brilliance. I throw my arm up to shield my eyes from the glare and feel a sharp tug on my hand. Something scrapes across the floor then falls with a metallic clatter. Across the room somebody gives an alarmed shout, and beside me McKay snorts and splutters into wakefulness.

"Hey! Carson, who turned the lights on?"

"He did, bloody fool!" A warm hand descends onto my shoulder and I'm aware of the infirmary lights fading back to their previous level of dimness. "Major? Can you open your eyes for me?"

Cautiously I lower my arm and blink. Beckett stands over me, his expression a mix of both a scowl and a smile. The faint outline of a keyboard is pressed against the left side of his face.

"Good." He sounds pleased. "I'm guessin' you can see me?"

"Yeah." I grin, feeling my heart slow, the muscles in my back and neck unknotting. "In full technicolor. But, ah, doc', you've got a little…"

He frowns. "What?"

"Never mind." I give another grin.

Beside me McKay rolls his eyes, and shakes his head at me. He pulls himself into a sitting position and says, reproachfully: "You pulled out your IV."

Confused, I raise my hand to my face and stare in surprise at the small trickle of blood oozing from a nick in my skin. "Ow."

Carson mutters something under his breath and presses a cotton ball into my free hand. "Hold that over it. The bleeding should stop in a minute." He huffs and turns to pick up the IV stand. "It's a good thing I was ready to take you off this."

McKay gives me a worried look. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah." I look up at the infirmary, basking in all its detail. "It was just dark in here."

"Oh." I catch a brief flicker of sympathy on his face before McKay's expression turns to one of mild annoyance. "You could have given me some warning."

"You were asleep," I point out, reasonably.

He folds his arms defiantly. "Well it's been a long three days." Then he gives me an uneven grin, jabbing a finger in my direction. "But you can see."

"Yup." I smile so wide my cheeks hurt, then glance at Beckett, busying himself with a blood pressure cuff around my arm. "How long have I been out of it?"

"Close to fourteen hours," he replies, then at my horrified look, explains, "You've put your body through hell, Major. You and Rodney both. Dehydration, numerous cuts and bruises, there's Rodney's leg that needed eight stitches and you with mild concussion, not to mention a good dose of simple exhaustion…"

"Mild!" McKay squeaks.

I lift a hand to my head and gently probe the wound, feeling soft cloth beneath my fingers.

"Stop that," Carson scolds, knocking my hand away. "It can't heal if you keep playing with it."

I resist the urge to lift my hand again. "What about my hair?"

Beckett's eyebrows shoot upwards. "Major?"

McKay gives an overly dramatic sigh. "Your hair is fine, Sampson. As much as I tried to encourage them the nurses took pity on you. Shame," he grins evilly, "a crew cut might suit you."

If I yelp it's only because the blood pressure cuff has cut off all circulation to my arm. Beckett studies the gage for several long seconds and then gives a satisfied 'hmm' and pulls back the Velcro. "How's the vision?"

"Fine." I sound surprised. Experimentally I squint at the monitor on the opposite wall, scanning the fine print. "Just as good as new."

"I'll schedule an eye test just in case." He pulls out a penlight from his pocket. "Now, look straight ahead."

I groan but obey, allowing myself to be blinded for the second time in three days.

"What about memory?" he asks, directing my eyes with a finger. "What do you remember before waking up here?"

"Vacating by the river with Dave the dead Wraith. Singing." I grimace.

"You have a terrible voice," McKay says, folding his arms.

"And you're such a beautiful tenor," I retort.

"Hey, at least I can carry a tune!"

"Now then," Beckett reproaches, "no bickering. You both need to rest." He glances at me. "Feeling hungry, Major?"

I consider this for a moment, but the nausea I expect doesn't come, and my stomach growls at me. "Yeah, I am."

"Me too," McKay butts in, loudly.

"I guessed as much." Beckett smiles at us both and walks away from the bed. "I'm sure the kitchen will be able to find you both something. I'll let Elizabeth know you're awake, Major, and I imagine your team will want to see you."

"Yeah." I clear my throat uncomfortably and look away from McKay. "Give us a few minutes?"

Carson nods, then pats the corner of my mattress awkwardly. "You gave us all quite a scare," he reprimands, but his expression softens. "It's good to see you're both alright."

McKay coughs and looks a little embarrassed. "Thanks, Carson."

The Scot nods, then turns and heads for the infirmary exit. I wait until he's out of earshot then turn to McKay.

"I should be thanking you."

He turns a strange shade of pink and looks down to his sheets. "Oh, well, if you mean because I lugged your sorry ass across a planet and took out a pissed off Wraith single handedly, then yeah…" He shrugs dismissively. "You should thank me."

"McKay," I drawl, and he looks up at me, his expression one of carefully controlled neutral. "You impressed me."

He coughs again, but sits a little straighter in the bed. "Yes, well, I _am_ impressive."

"I'd be careful though." I grin. "If your head swells you could go blind."

McKay glares at me, folding his arms. "You would think I might be due a little respect, but no. Typical."

"A little respect?"

He groans, and buries his face into his hands. "Oh god, not an encore."

The idea of throwing a pillow at him seems very appealing, but I decide to hold onto it, settling back beneath the sheets. My muscles ache, and I can feel the beginnings of a headache behind my eyes.

"You should sleep," he says, casually.

"So you can eat my portion? No thanks, McKay."

He snorts, easing his shoulders back against the bed.

"McKay?"

"What?"

I roll onto my side and peer at him through the dimness. "You didn't, ah, back on the planet…"

"What?"

"You didn't see or hear anything unusual?"

His eye twitches. "Like?"

"Oh, ah… nothing, really." I hesitate, then press on: "Ghosts."

There is a very brief pause before he turns his head and rolls his eyes. "Have you mentioned these hallucinations to Carson? Because you should."

"Never mind." I roll back and stare up at the ceiling.

"So you didn't see anything?" he presses.

"No, McKay. I didn't see _anything_," I add, pointedly.

"Oh. Right. Sorry. Neither did I," he says, quickly.

"Didn't think you had."

"Good."

There is a long, uncomfortable silence. I tap my fingers against the mattress, listening to McKay moving restlessly in his bed.

"Hey, McKay?"

"What?"

"Sing-along?"

_The End_

_Hope you enjoyed it!_


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